NORTHWARD HO!
THE reconstructed and augmented Del Sol herd passed on northward
steadily, as though impelled by some cosmic force. It had required
well-nigh a week to cut the two herds and blend them into one, for
handling heavy beeves in the open is vastly different from the work of
the corral and branding chute on light cattle. At the end of the work
the remuda was dragged and drooping, the men yet more taciturn. But they
could look out with pride over well-nigh four thousand head of longhorns
such as would make any cowman’s eye brighten even in that day.
Now, daily more accustomed to the trail, the cattle shook down to the
daily march. At dawn they did not feed at first; but, never urged to
speed, in an hour or two would graze along, halting in the march,
advancing, the concourse at times stretched out over more than a mile,
perhaps a quarter that distance in width. At midday, thrown off the
trail—if trail it could be called which as yet had never known a
herd—they grazed well, and in that portion of the country could find
water two or three times a day; so that they took on or held flesh
rather than lost it.
“Did ary one of you-all ever hear how far it is to Aberlene?” asked
Nabours of his new man, Dalhart, whom he had put on point in view of his
obvious education as a cowman.
“Must be e’en around about a plumb thousand miles,” replied the latter.
“Hope hit’s thisaway all the ways—plenty of grass and the rivers full
enough fer water right along. We ain’t had to hunt water yet. You’d orto
see the Llano! We’ve driv two days, out yan, with their tongues hangin’
out.
“Water! When we hit the Colorado I thought we got plenty water. She’ll
swim a horse in a dry year, and she swum us for more’n a hundred fifty
yards! I was mighty glad to ferry them carts.
“Uh-huh. Ner that ain’t all—the Brazos’ll do the same, and only luck’ll
save us from swimmin’ a quarter mile, maybe, on the Red. Then beyond
that’s the Washita, narrer but deep. I never talked with no man that
ever was north of the Chickasaws. We’ll wet our saddles plenty, shore.
What cows we don’t drownd and the Injuns don’t steal, or that don’t get
lost in night runs—why, that’s what we’ll have to sell. Four thousand’s
a big herd to han’le—too big—but I’ve gethered cows long enough to
know a feller better git plenty when the chancet comes.”
North of the first unbridged river—the Colorado—the advance was over a
country practically new, although now subdivided into organized
counties. The main thrust of the early population was from the south and
lower east, so that now the farther north they got the sparser grew the
infrequent settlements. All North and Northwest Texas remained _terra
incognita_ even for Texans, and no map of it ever had been made, let
alone of the wild Indian Territory that lay north of it. The thousands
of longhorns, the first herd ever to go north from a point so far south
in Texas, plodded along, never turning a backward foot, but hourly
finding a new land. Austin was a county-seat town rather than a capitol
city. Such communities as Temple, Waco, Cleburne, Fort Worth—all close
to the ninety-eighth meridian, along which lay the general course of the
first of the cattle drives before the trails moved west—were cities in
embryo; Fort Worth, through which bodily the trail ran, had then not
over one hundred inhabitants; enough for a metropolis in a state that
had not a hundred miles of rails and no trace of a lasting market for
the one great commodity—cows.
Across a half dozen counties, a dozen lesser streams, the singular
procession passed onward, epochal, in an abysmal ignorance and a
childlike self-confidence. Its course was due north; and since now the
grass was good and water courses full, it needed to make no digressions.
The herd left a trail a hundred yards wide, two hundred, half a mile;
but the main road remained written plainly for any who might follow.
Nabours was cowman enough not to crowd his cattle on a march of such
indefinite duration, but continually he fretted over the necessary
slowness of the journey.
“It’s good country,” he admitted to Del Williams; “can’t complain; grass
all right; high enough, but not washed out; and a good creek every forty
rod almost. But I never did know Texas was so big. Here we are into May,
and when we make the Brazos we’ll be only maybe a hunderd and fifty mile
north of where we started at. It’ll be anyways a hunderd years afore we
make Aberlene, ef there is any such place, which I doubt, me. Not one of
us knows nothing, and nary one has ever been even up here afore. We’ll
just about hit the Red when she’s up full.”
“We ain’t there yit,” rejoined his new point man cheerfully. “We may all
git drownded in the Brazos; an’ ef we do we won’t need worry none about
the Red.”
They had not yet lost all touch with the settlements; indeed,
continually crossed the great pastures of men who under range custom
held their own river fronts and range. Now and again a sort of trace led
them north—the compass finger of fate always pointed north and not west
for the state of the Lone Star. But of actual road there was none,
fences were undreamed and bridges never yet had been held needful for
traveling man. When, therefore, they struck the great Brazos, coming
down as did all these upper rivers from the east rim of the mysterious
Llano Estacado, it was relief to Nabours to find a pair of rough boats
which he fancied he could lash together into ferriage for his
troublesome carts and their timid passengers. For the herd a swimming
crossing once more was necessary, and demand was made once more on the
native generalship of the foreman.
“Put ’em in warm, men,” he said to his men at the camp fire in a great
arm of the river. “Ef a cow’s warm and the sun’s shining he’ll take the
water easy. Ef he’s chilly he begins to think of home and mother. We’ll
rest ’em here till late to-morrer morning. The bank’s highest on the
south side and we can throw ’em in easy. I don’t think there’s more’n a
hunderd yards or so of swimming, no ways.”
His judgment proved good for an amateur—as all trail drovers then were.
Well warmed, the herd strung into the ford amiably enough, led by the
point men and pushed by the swings. The horse herd already had been
crossed, for horses swim better than cattle, and have more courage at a
wide crossing; and this laid down the line for the herd leaders, who
went in readily enough.
The long line of the cattle, as it reached the swimming channel, was
swept down stream in a deep U, but when they caught footing and made up
the farther bank the line was established and the crossing went on
steadily, the line never broken and not a head lost out of the great
total. It went forward as though in an accustomed routine; and this
first successful essay in crossing big water gave confidence to all.
All the saddle horses, including Blancocito, had to swim, and so did the
yoke oxen of the carts. The owner of the herd patiently waited her turn.
Old Anita crossed herself for two solid hours, sure her end had come.
Milly found her relief in loud and tearful lamentations.
“What ever brung us-all ’way up yere?” she exclaimed. “My folks wuz
Baptists, and so’m me; but what I says is, I done been baptized oncet
and dat’s plenty. I’m a notion to walk back home.”
“No you won’t,” said the trail boss, who with his best man had come back
to see to this last work. “You and Anita set right on yore cart seats.
Miss Taisie’ll take care of you. Ef you drownd we can get plenty better
cooks, so don’t you worry. Ef you did float off, you couldn’t sink
noways. Anita’s the one in danger—she’s all bones. You set in the
middle and say yore prayers like Anita does.
“Don’t you worry none, ma’am,” he added, addressing Taisie. “I’m going
to take them two John boats somebody has left here and make a raft
that’s safer than a bridge.”
His process gave proof of the Texan’s strange distrust in all boats and
confidence in all horses, although it showed no less the resourcefulness
of the real explorer, crossing country with such means as lay at hand.
It was no great matter to rope the two broad-horn scows together side
and side, and to lay a pole platform across to receive the carts, which
were run on by hand. Remained the question of propulsion, and none of
these knew aught of sail or pole or oars. This meant falling back on the
_vade mecum_—the horse, without which in his day the railroads and
bridges might as well never have been.
Nabours lashed his cart wheels fast to his craft, so that he could risk
strain on them. Then he got a long pole, some thirty feet in length. All
the time singing and whistling to himself, and vouchsafing no answer to
any, he passed this across the body of the foremost cart and lashed it
fast. The ends projected widely at each side.
“I got a steamboat now,” said he to his followers, “but I ain’t got no
side paddle wheels. Ride in there, you points—Dalhart, and you,
Del—you’re side wheels. When you get under the ends, each of you reach
up and tie yore saddle horn to the end of the pole. Then swim back
yoreselfs. The horses couldn’t sink ef they wanted to, and I don’t
reckon there’s only one way they can swim, and that’s acrost.”
Theirs not to reason why, the two men obeyed, managing to get into the
boat, which still lay aground, the side-wheel horses standing not over
belly deep, each encouraged by its rider, who lay along the gunwale
anxiously. But when at length the thing was put to the test by bodily
pushing the clumsy contrivance into the current, the unique experiment
proved a success. The horses, finding themselves carried off their feet,
began to swim vigorously, their instinct or their intelligence leading
them to head angling upstream. The result was that the craft, even thus
heavily loaded, made astonishing headway; indeed, finding a landing just
below the ford end established by the herd. With shouts and laughter the
remaining men once more swam their horses over in the wake. The
crossing, so novel that even Taisie forgot her fears, was made with
expedition and in perfect safety.
“It’s easy,” said Jim Nabours, modestly answering the compliments of his
men. “Of course, ef ’twasn’t for the womenfolks we wouldn’t have to
bother. A feller couldn’t keep house without a horse, could he? Ain’t
nothing a horse and a rope can’t do. My horse swum me over twicet, and
didn’t hardly wet the saddle to the tops of the rosaderos. There ain’t
nothing safe as a horse, ma’am.
“Now you men go on and string ’em out”—he turned to his well-wetted
associates. “They’re all over and all ready to move. It’s a dandy
crossing. We’ll bed three or four miles on, if it looks good. Feed ’em
slow and get ’em full. A full belly’s the best way to handle a cow. I’ll
push on ahead right soon.”
Just now he rode over to the moody figure that sat her reclaimed horse
at the upper side of the fording trail. His face was frowning.
“Miss Taisie,” said he, “one thing I’ve got to tell you. There ain’t
going to be two trail bosses on this herd. It’s you or me. Now I want to
say that we can’t be over about thirty of forty mile from Fort Worth. I
reckon you and Del can get married there, huh? Then you still could ride
back home to Del Sol. I don’t know what there is ahead. We ain’t more’n
started. I can take chances for myself, and men and my cows—but not for
you!”
“Jim! Why, Jim!” She laid a hand on his soaked sleeve. “You don’t think
I’m a quitter, do you?”
“Lord knows I don’t, ma’am! I wisht you was.”
“Jim! The lone herd of Del Sol, the first out of Texas? Something big,
Jim! I don’t think I’ll be scared any more. It wouldn’t be playing
square with you-all to get married and go back home. . . . Home?”
He turned quickly. Tears again were on the girl’s cheeks. With a savage
groan he caught the cheek strap of Blancocito and led her to the
vehicles.
“You Milly, damn yore black Baptist hide, quit yore shouting and build a
fire! Make some coffee for Miss Taisie. I’ll tell Sinker to hold the
remuda back, Miss Taisie. You-all come on up then.”
Presently Cinquo Centavos rode up, shy and grinning, abashed yet happy
at being appointed personal guardian of his deity. Thin, burned brown,
ragged, his hat almost no hat at all, boots and saddle alone marked him
worthy to join these other men—these and his instinctive mastery of
horseflesh. At sight of Milly clambering down over the cart
wheel—indeed a dismaying spectacle—his mount began to plunge and
pitch. The boy sat him, annoyed. Taisie waved a hand.
“Fine, Cinquo!” she called. “I like to see you ride.”
The boy smiled as he jerked up the head of the horse.
“I didn’t make him pitch, ma’am,” said he. “He’s jest done that hisself.
I reckon it was the sight o’ Milly’s laigs. He’s all right now.” He
dismounted.
“How are you coming on, Cinquo?” inquired his mistress. “Getting to be a
regular trail man?”
“I ain’t lost a head yit, ma’am,” said the youth simply. “One D Slash
hawse turned back this mornin’, but I crossed him. I got my hull bunch.
Now we’re over two-three rivers; they won’t turn back now. Hawses is a
heap reasonabler than cows.”
“Jim says you work too hard. You don’t need to be up all night on a
remuda, he says—horses stick together. You don’t have to watch them
every minute.”
“Shore they do, ma’am. You don’t bed ’em and tuck ’em in like you do
cows. I wouldn’t be no cowman,” superiorly. “Gimme two-three weeks on
the trail,” he added eagerly, “I wouldn’t hatter watch so hard, like
now. They feed against the wind, ma’am. I got the bell on that big white
Del Sol mare. I allus listen which way the bell is soundin’, and so I
allus know where they’re at: Why, sleep? I slep’ most a hour last night.
When I don’t hear the bell I wake up. It’s easy if you savvy hawses. I
ain’t gwine to lose nary head, to Aberlene, ma’am.” He colored deeply.
“I—well, I ain’t, now!”
“I’ve got all good men, Cinquo,” said his deity. “They savvy cows and
savvy horses.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The boy’s throat gulped.
“Have some coffee, Cinquo,” said Taisie. “Milly, give Cinquo something
to eat. He hasn’t lost a head.”
Seated comfortably on the ground, Cinquo grew more confident.
“Ma’am, ain’t the nights han’some?” he ventured. “So bright, quiet-like.
Times, I lay on the groun’ by my hawse; come midnight, I kin hear the
bell, and hear my hawses blow, nighest ones; er sometimes hear the cows
grunt and blow, too, bellies full and right contented. So all the
world’s kind o’ happy-like. And the stars is so fine, ma’am! Don’t you
think so? Like glass, they air. Seems like God must ’a’ busted a
winderpane and slammed the pieces right up agin the sky, and they stuck
there, shinin’ like they was wet.”
“Yes, Cinquo. So you’ve noticed the stars too?”
“Then we both do!” he exulted. His young, shy eyes shone. Indeed, he was
her knight, ready to risk all in her honor. So were his nights borne,
sleepless in ardor and reverence.
“Stahs!” broke in Milly. “Stahs! They’s common! I know whaffur I go
Nawth—I gwine to git me a apple! Onliest apple I ever done et,” she
explained, “were what Sher’f McMasters gimme. He taken it out’n his
saddle pocket and said would I eat it? ‘Mister Sher’f,’ says I, ‘what
setch a thing like disher cost now?’ says I. ‘Oh, it mout ’a’ costed
fifty cents,’ says he, ‘’cludin’ of freight.’ ‘Huh,’ says I, ‘ef it cost
fifty cent, I reckon Ah gwine to stahve on, stahve on!’ But some time,
ef ever I git Nawth, and ever I git whah apples is at, an’ ain’t nobody
a-lookin’—u-m-m—huh! Now, Mr. Dan McMasters, he sayed——”
“Go get my horse, Cinquo!” broke in Taisie Lockhart imperatively.
“Milly, pack the dishes. Come, we must get on!”
[Illustration: _A Paramount Picture. North of 36._
“WHAT ARE YOU—FRIEND OR FOE?” DEMANDS JIM NABOURS.]